


Interlude

by Ineke Meyer (Tevere)



Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: Juvenilia, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-10-25
Updated: 2004-10-25
Packaged: 2017-10-09 18:27:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/90265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tevere/pseuds/Ineke%20Meyer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was crazy. It was normal. It was enough.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Interlude

Trust Daniel to be the one guy on the face of Planet America who didn't have a bottle opener somewhere in his kitchen. It didn't go a long way towards validating the barely-there effort at masculinity that was Daniel even _having_ beer in the fridge, and so maybe it was lucky that Jack just happened to be a resourceful kind of guy. Good with his hands and nifty in times of peril; just generally the kind of person you'd want around when faced with unopenable beer on the one Earth day that wound up being hotter than an Abydonian spring break.

Jack dealt the crowns of the bottles a neat blow on the edge of the kitchen island.

"_Fuck_."

He scrubbed at the circular bites in the paint, but they were a done deal and weren't going anywhere anytime soon. No chance that Daniel wouldn't notice either, what with his archaeologist's eye for annoyingly tiny detail. Jack surreptitiously draped a dishcloth over the ding. Well, hey. Worth a shot.

The beer was still good, though. More than good: _great_. Some new import, Jack guessed. European, maybe? Smooth and dark and bitter, with an odd back-of-the-palate tang that reminded him weirdly of Daniel's 'alien corn' discovery last week on 454--

Several tiny tumblers in Jack's brain did a little clicketty-click manoeuver and came up odds-on.

"Daniel!"

Yep, the lettering on that label wasn't European: not even _close_ \-- not by, oh, a couple of thousand light years at the least. Jack squinted at what he took to be an ingredients list. Alien corn, yessir.

Daniel was in the living room, sprawled with some kind of dry-as-the-bones-they-studied academic dishrag. He looked up when Jack came in, gave him a private sort of smile, and flexed his bare toes against the top of the coffee table. His legs were apart, and there was a weirdly-shaped sweat stain on the inside of his left knee.

"Daniel," said Jack, with admirable calm, "tell me you didn't smuggle alien beer through the Stargate."

Daniel wrinkled his eyebrows at Jack. "So Special Ops _can_ uncap bottles with their teeth. I'll have to tell Sam that."

"It's on the _label_," said Jack, deciding to let that one go. "Alien. Corn. Goddammit."

"But you can't read the label." Daniel accepted one of the beers from Jack; raised it in a lazy salute with a matching lazy smile. "Could be Russian, for all you know."

"_Daniel_."

"Jack."

"Daniel--" Jack pressed. His sixth sense for alien-inspired doom was quiet, though. Lulled into a stupor by the cicadas and the heat, or simply by the overarching familiarity of _this:_ home, beer, Sunday, summer. Someone's lawnmower churning away a couple of streets down; inside, the not-quite-locker-room sweat and musk smell of another man that was starting to mean _sex_.

"It's hard letting go of a beer once I finally find one I like," Daniel conceded, taking a calm swallow. His adam's apple moved smoothly with the motion, dislodging a small bead of something that could've been either condensation or sweat. Jack followed it with his eyes as it ran itself dry before quite reaching the neckline of Daniel's tank. "Anyway, I ran it all past the xenobiologists on 24."

"Of course you did," said Jack.

"They said there wasn't any possibility of contamination -- in fact, most of 454's vegetation is identical to Earth's."

"Of course it is," said Jack.

Daniel laughed at him. "You're pissy, aren't you?"

"No," Jack said, slumping against Daniel's pristine white-painted doorway. "I'm too hot to be anything other than mildly annoyed. Don't do it again, and that's an order."

His beer was half-gone already, the remnants warming quickly. Trust Daniel to have picked a planet with the only decent microbrew in the galaxy. And the fact that the natives hadn't wanted to shoot, enslave or have sex with them was just an added bonus.

With the west-facing French doors open, Daniel's white apartment was flooded with a lurid sunset orange, thick like day-glo paint. Jack's shadow from the kitchen doorway cut a sharp swathe through the colour: an eight-foot paper doll stapled to his feet and stretching to place its spiky, dark-haired head in Daniel's lap. Jack's own hair was grey, silver. Orange walls just reminded him of the 70s, when they'd been crazy keen kids with psychedelic wallpaper and lava lamps, and the girls'd had bongs shaped like violently realistic dicks. It hadn't stopped him then, and didn't look like it was stopping him now. Lips to dick zipper-worship: crazy, really, if you thought about it. Maybe the heat had pickled his brain; maybe he was having the best time of his life, these snatched interludes that passed for normality.

"We're off duty. You can't issue orders," said Daniel. He took off his glasses, folded them one-handed and placed them on the coffee table. Looking vaguely up at Jack, he blinked and said slyly: "Actually, none of the usual rules apply."

Jack contemplated him. "Any rules in particular?"

"We-ell, there's this one rule--" Daniel gave Jack what could only be described as a slutty grin and drained the rest of his drink. He had strong, capable hands: a working archaeologist's hands, used to pickaxes and P90s. Tan line of a wedding band not quite gone from the fourth finger; a couple of pale scars shiny with condensation.

It'd taken Jack a while to get used to the feel of another man's hands on him. Daniel's hands on Jack's old, battle-scarred body with its hinky knee and cratered shoulder, touching and gripping with a need that was almost ridiculous. _Daniel_, for chrissakes. Their hands had tangled together overhead while they'd fucked, rough skin of Jack's palms against Daniel's callouses, and Daniel holding and squeezing and not gentle at all as he arched underneath Jack, saying harshly _fuck me, oh shit yeah, fuck, fuck, oh God Jack--_

Daniel drew Jack in with his eyes. Blue-eyed Danny, sweating and intense, who could gasp out _Jack, I'm coming_ in eighteen different languages.

"Jack," said Daniel, low, and slid the empty bottle slowly underneath the waistband of his thin sweats. With his feet propped wide apart on the coffee table, the action was unmistakable: Daniel rolling the bottle slowly up and down his dick, the crook of his wrist tenting the material and rubbing the moisture through in long, vertical streaks.

Jack's dick twitched, but he only asked: "Cold?"

"Ahh," said Daniel, lifting his eyebrows. "A little." He still had on that lazy, slutty smile. Maybe the one he'd worn once in a tent on Abydos, sweat-wet and groaning while Sha're fucked him astride in the thick, suffocating heat. It was the kind of smile that invited Jack to crawl forwards on hands and knees between Daniel's spread thighs, to suck him and fuck him boneless and limp in the hot orange glow slanting in through the open doors.

"Technically," Jack said, drawling, "what you're doing isn't against any regulation I've ever seen."

It was all well and good keeping his voice dry, but his dick was another matter. His dick might be career military the same as Jack, but it was worse than Daniel at following set instructions: saluted at every wrong opportunity, fraternised like fuck. Trapped between thigh and fly, Jack's dick moved from warm flush through to hard ache in less than sixty seconds. Can't keep a good soldier down, nosir.

Daniel was watching Jack with half-lidded intentness, hand still in lazy, continuous motion. "Comfortable?"

"I'm fine," said Jack. "Just-- fine."

"You don't _look_ fine," said Daniel irritatingly.

"Oh, I'm fine," Jack gritted, and there was nothing for it but to reach down, grab himself through his pants and straighten his dick out against his stomach. When he pulled his hand away there was a wet star-shaped print directly over his dick; Daniel laughed, pulled the bottle out of his sweats and set it down on the table with an authoritive _clink_.

Jack raised an eyebrow.

Daniel stood, pulled down his sweats without ceremony, and sprawled back onto the sofa in exactly the same position. Knees apart, feet up, arms draped horizontally, black tank wrinkled and clinging and sweat-ringed at the underarms. And Daniel might've had biceps to make a soldier weep, but Jack wasn't looking at his arms: Jack was looking at Daniel's dick. Slapping up against his abs, redder than usual -- cold, maybe, from the glass -- and as slick and shiny as though it'd been licked.

"Come here, Jack."

And Jack went. Dog to a dog-whistle, his dog-tags dangling. Pulled his t-shirt over his head and went on hands and knees straight to Daniel's dick, wrapped his lips around its bizarrely cool length and sucked like the proverbial. Cold mouth around cold dick, but Jack could feel the heat pumping back to the surface under his hard, fast, take-no-prisoners ministrations. Time in the military taught you the value of a hard, fast fuck -- and if Sara'd complained, Daniel never did, always just rose up on his smooth, muscled thighs and fucked Jack back, hard and fast like he was made for this: made for fucking.

Jack sucked and Daniel's veins rose smoothly and hotly under his tongue, stealing and returning heat from Jack's mouth until all parts of the lewd system they'd gotten going was lubricated like the insides of one of Carter's refitted bike engines, frictionless and hot, gleaming with a seductive shine that'd take your fingerprint off with a third-degree burn if you were stupid enough to touch it. Daniel fucking Jack's mouth with lazy, barely-there hip shifts, Jack with his elbows on Daniel's knees, sucking Daniel's dick like he was getting off on it and he was: it was a feedback loop, heat fuelling heat until it was furnace inside Jack's mouth to match the stifling Colorado summer on the outside.

"Yeah, just like that--"

And Daniel wasn't anywhere near gone yet, lolling back with his lips parted in an easy half-smile, enjoying it. The inside of each of his upper arms was a pale, cleanly-defined curve that looked as if it'd been sketched neatly with an artist's pencil. Strong, masculine arms broadening into pecs that stretched his cotton tank top over the peaks of his nipples -- and except for his mouth, there was nothing soft about Daniel. No breasts to caress with one hand while Jack guided his dick in with the other, just a hard, male body that resisted incursions until they wrestled themselves together, stubborn jigsaw pieces that needed more than a kiss and whisper to make fit.

Jack wanted to see Daniel arching, tight-bodied and soft-mouthed. Wanted to see his arms stretched against the back of the sofa until the tendons and the veins stood out under the skin. Wanted to see Daniel crucified there, head back until all Jack could see was the gold stubble prickling the curve of his neck, his ass spread open around Jack's dick, ankles locking behind Jack's waist to pull him closer with each thrust. Dr. Daniel Jackson, with his thighs covered in his own precome and sweat, gasping out _Jack, Jack, Jack_ like it was the last known word in the universe; like Jack was a goddamned Gou'ald one true God and Daniel was a brainwashed slave with one hand on his dick and one on his heart.

And there'd been times when Jack had thought about Daniel when he shouldn't have been: out on a mission on yet another PX-whateverthefuck, and he could see the silhouettes of Carter and Daniel sitting in their tent, arms hugging their knees like they were teenagers sharing gossip on a summer camp rather than soldiers on a hostile planet overrun with walking snakes. Daniel, constantly talking even after Jack called over to them, "Lights out, kids." Talking until all Jack could think of doing was crawling over there and shutting Daniel's clever, suicidal mouth up with his dick. Fucking that perfect, pink mouth while Carter slept on beside them and snakes surrounded their tent, peering in through the plastic sheeting at Jack with his desert fatigues at mid-thigh and his hand in Daniel's spiky, slept-in hair. Jack looking down over the forward thrust of his abs and hips to see the soft line of Daniel's jaw working around his dick, tongue like a wick of wet velvet, rubbing back and forth and up and around until Jack was the one who couldn't keep it quiet; was the one groaning and arching over the nape of Daniel's bowed head. _Daniel, God, just like that-- ahh, God, don't stop--_

But the thing that Jack hadn't realised in his come-in-his-pants mission fantasies was that Daniel's made-for-cocksucking mouth was even better, even more perfect, when it wasn't open around Jack's cock but around Jack's _name_. Stupidly gorgeous, pink lips like the kind you'd see on a Mississippi beauty queen, full and soft and pleading _Jack, Jack, please_, like Jack's mouth on Daniel's dick had sucked out the academic belligerence and genius and just left an average guy like Jack, hands grabbing at the sheets in frustration.

Jack's dick felt like it was being strangled in his pants. Still, his had a decade or so over Daniel's one-eyed handful, and he knew it'd be more than worth it to hold out for the reward of seeing Daniel sinking slowly onto it, face and body flushed and dripping with sweat, naked except for his military-issue tank top shoved up to his shoulders. Positions reversed from where they were now, maybe: Daniel straddling Jack with his hands braced on the back of the sofa, tall enough so that their mouths weren't level, Jack's lips just brushing the slick hollow of Daniel's neck with each movement--

_Shit_. Jack pulled his mind away with effort. Mind on the task, soldier. Task on hand, task on lips, licking and inhaling that familiar other-guy smell that Jack couldn't help thinking of as _full-bodied:_ a comfortable rounded odour of salt-sweat and lingering aftershave that was completely unlike the sharp, alien smell of a woman.

Daniel, observant even when he was having his dick sucked, laughed at Jack's preoccupied expression and arched upwards a little further, rubbing himself almost playfully against Jack's tongue. And sometimes it was like this: sex as a continuation of the game they always played, teasing and pushing and goading each other until they either fought or fucked-- the fucking, though, had to wait until Earth. Hard and fast up against the door in a dark apartment that smelled like _absence_ and had the quiet stillness of a museum.

A touch tangled in Jack's hair. Daniel's strong fingers pressing gently into the dip at the base of Jack's skull, pulling him closer. "God, I love the way you do this--"

And Jack loved _that_, the hitch in Daniel's voice that meant he was getting off on it, getting off on _Jack_ and Jack's tongue and Jack's fingers, which were sliding up Daniel's slick inner thighs and brushing teasingly against his balls, the tight pucker of his asshole.

"I think about this, you know," Daniel said, then gasped a little as Jack slid the tip of one finger inside him. Jack felt him clench instinctively, a tiny grabbing sensation that made his dick jump with anticipation; made him want to push in further, all the way. It'd be as easy as pie to do it, as easy as a head-over-heels tumble through a wormhole: two fingers, three fingers, Daniel shuddering gorgeously around the full length of Jack's dick, opened wide and shivering with the still-newness of the sensation. "I think about you, _ah_, coming into my office and sucking me off like this, on your knees in front of me, and I've got my feet on the desk and you've got your fingers _inside_ me and I'm, _ah_\--" He trailed off with a moan as Jack smiled and slid his finger home, neatly skewering him. "Oh, _Jack--_"

Jack pulled his mouth off Daniel's dick, letting it bounce against his stomach with a wet _thwack_. He felt hot all over, like he had a fever: sweat dampening his hair, slicking the small of his back, soaking his briefs until they clung to his dick like a warm, wet hand. Daniel was making a soft noise of loss, and Jack kept his hand in place, twisted it slowly and said, "And then what?"

"What?" Daniel said distractedly, and licked his lips. His eyebrows were hovering above the bridge of his nose. It was the expression he wore when chasing a particularly elusive translation. Also, as it turned out, the expression he wore when Jack was rubbing him sweetly from the inside.

"I've got my fingers in you, and you're doing what?" Jack asked. He spat on his fingers; slipped a second one in beside the first. Oh God, Daniel was so _tight_\-- hot and tight and clamped down around him like a velvet vise, and how could anyone ever get tired of this? He felt a brief, almost inexplicable pang of sadness. Daniel's fantasy, _his_ fantasy-- only it was something that would never happen because it _couldn't_, because of who they were and what they did. The sadness turned into mild regret, then slipped away. It was a decision he'd made a long time ago. Just another regret to go with a lifetime of them.

"_Oh_." Daniel sounded choked. "God, Jack, you're so hot when you're on your knees--"

"I wanted to know about you, not me," said Jack, amused.

"What do you _think_ I'd be doing?" Daniel said, with a touch of asperity. "Ah-- probably doing something very much like this, oh shit _Jack_\--"

Daniel arched and flexed his foot on the coffee table, lifting his leg higher over Jack's shoulder and working himself further onto Jack's fingers. His toes left sweat marks on the glass as they skidded for purchase. He made a noise of frustration, but it had a pleading edge.

"Ahh--"

"What?" Jack said as innocently as he could manage. It was hard, _he_ was hard-- God, he was achingly hard, _naquada_-hard. He pressed his dick against Daniel's knee and got a short, breathless laugh in return.

"Jack, do you really think that's going make me feel sorry for you?"

"Can't blame a guy for tryin'." Jack pressed harder, rocking a little. Sensation flared: sweet, liquid-hot waves licking up inside his abdomen and through his balls and along his dick, oh _Christ._

Daniel exhaled with deliberation, and that was cutely familiar: his don't-you-_get_-it-Jack? noise. "Fucking me might be the solution to all your problems," he pointed out, sounding perfectly reasonable. Jack knew better. Reasonable was a not-so-deep cover for frustration -- toe-scrunching, back-arching frustration -- and frustration was a cat's whisker away from pissiness.

There was always a fine line between Daniel-frustrated and Daniel-pissy, but hey, Jack liked life on the edge. He leaned close, murmured into Daniel's ear. "Tell you what. Do it yourself."

"You're joking," Daniel said, his eyebrows shooting up incredulously.

"Daniel, Daniel." Jack kept the smug look off his face by nuzzling into the crease of Daniel's thigh. "I never joke."

Daniel groaned and rolled his shoulders, letting his head fall back against the sofa. "I guess I never got that memo."

"Guess not," Jack echoed, still stroking with his fingertips. His blood was singing: _come on, come on, come on!_

"Don't, _ah_, expect any favours after this," said Daniel, half-lidded. One hand stole towards his dick, stroking along the length before settling into a rhythm that echoed through Jack and settled in his own dick. Sweet, slow strokes at first, then Daniel was jerking himself hard, arching off the sofa and grinding himself downwards onto Jack's fingers with a gasped series of short, breathless sounds. "Oh god, oh, oh--"

A Gou'ald mothership could've landed on Daniel's balcony and Jack wouldn't have looked away; _couldn't_ look away from the play of muscles in Daniel's sleekly glistening forearm, the way his fist nearly covered his whole dick except for the peek of flushed head on the downstroke, Daniel biting his lip with what looked like concentration as he bucked up, said, "_Jack_\--" and came. Clenching tightly enough around Jack's fingers that it was almost painful, rolling spasms starting from the inside and culminating in a messy, glorious splatter that made Jack shake and gasp with a weird sympathy. And then that was it, and Jack was straddling Daniel's thighs and pushing his pants down just far enough to jerk himself, hand moving over his dick hard enough to have a friction just this side of painful: hard and sweet and oh, _Christ_, pulling his orgasm out of him with a suddenness that was almost surprising. His jaw clicked, the hair stood up on his arms like it was forty below and not ninety above, and Daniel's black tank top had definitely seen better days.

"Oh, wow, ow." Jack collapsed, forehead against Daniel's sweaty shoulder. Christ. He could feel Daniel's heart rabbitting underneath his own, strong and rhythmic in the moist, hot space between their bodies.

"Well, that was exhibitionistic," Daniel said, after a couple of moments. He sounded amused: lax and sprawling and satiated, like a big cat in the savannah heat.

"Didn't know I had it in me," said Jack. He lifted the hem of Daniel's tank top and wiped a smear of semen from his own arm; paused briefly to eye the rest of the mess. It was pretty impressive, he had to admit. "Actually, that's not true."

Daniel laughed. "Jack."

"Yeah?"

"Heavy."

"Oh, sorry." Jack climbed off, coming unstuck in a peeling movement that made his skin tingle. His knees twanged in sharp protest and, oh yeah, there was the catch. Ow. But the pain faded quickly, the afterglow of sex soothing away the ache of old and abused joints. He kicked off his pants and briefs, stretching. "Want another drink?"

"Sure." Daniel was skinning out of his tank top, muscles moving interestingly with the movement.

Jack left him to it. The beer was at the back of the fridge, behind a head of soggy lettuce and a tub of margarine. Not even bachelor food: more like the indication of someone who didn't really live here, just someone who stayed a while between other things, other interests, the other part of his life. There was something almost pathetic about it, how neither of them were ever on Earth enough to keep a decent fridge. Two days off here, three days off there: little interludes of normality that weren't enough to live in, only to enough recuperate and move on, like tiny oases in the desert.

"Jack?"

"Oh." Jack shook his head back to the here-and-now. The cold had goose-bumped the skin of his thighs and stomach, and his balls were crawling upwards, seeking warmth. He shut the fridge; handed Daniel a beer. "Just thinking."

"How unusual," Daniel said, wrinkling his eyebrows wryly.

Jack kissed him, then: just a quick brush of lips, pin-pricky with stubble. The kind of kiss you gave someone because they were there; because you _could_.

It was crazy. It was normal. It was enough.

ENDS


End file.
